


If Inconvenient, Come All the Same

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Come at once if convenient, Dirty Talk, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, when the met calls during sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John learned the hard way that if the Met calls while they're having sex, they should answer it. And if they actually then need to get to the crime scene without delay? They have techniques for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Inconvenient, Come All the Same

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by two things. One - by how much it annoys me when characters on screen are about to get sexy wid it (or are indeed _in the the middle of having sex_ ) and then answer the **damned phone** and Two - the inappropriate pun therefore suggested by the famous summons.
> 
> I'd apologise for the latter, only I'm not sorry. :D

Sherlock’s pale, sweat-sheened skin was flushed with exertion, and with a languorous yet building frisson of pleasure. One hand was clenched in the sheet and flexed in time with the rhythm of his small, gasping cries – which in turn were drawn forth in time with John’s slow, steady thrusts into his body.

Sherlock’s other hand clasped the wrist of John’s hand wrapped around his thigh, holding one leg up on John’s right shoulder. John’s left hand held Sherlock’s left leg bent and pushed against Sherlock’s torso, holding Sherlock wonderfully spread for him as he rocked, with no sense of urgency but with an easy, greedy relentlessness. He was taking his time, and could take rather a lot of it if he so desired.

And he desired. Oh yes. He desired _so much_ to take his sweet time. The slow kissing and tasting and suckling of glorious, beloved skin, nuzzling into scent and heat, exploring planes and curves and hollows and rises with the tips of his fingers and palms of his hands and the fine skin of his hips and inside leg and his wrists and the tip of his nose and tongue and lips; the rub of his calves around Sherlock’s ribs, and the brush of the soles of his feet against Sherlock’s ankles. He was, when he wished, when they had the time, a cartographer, charting the topography of Sherlock’s body with his own.

And John knew that Sherlock was memorising his body too – testing and tasting and charting the bounds of that beloved country, in all lights, in all seasons, in all moods, at all ages.

Their mutual chronicling had led this afternoon to this, to Sherlock sprawled on the sheets while John knelt between his legs and eased himself, slow and sensuous, in and out of Sherlock’s slick and willing body, Sherlock’s untouched prick rising hard and wet between them, bobbing with the motion, and Sherlock arched and gasped and smiled and sighed at every exquisite sensation, while John murmured imprecations and encouragements and his love’s name in a low and breathless babble.

It was at this moment that Sherlock’s phone rang.

And that Sherlock answered it.

On the face of it, this could be construed as a terrible insult to John. At best, it was simply an appalling idea. John had in fact once insisted that ringing phones, when the two of them were well steeped in making love, were to be completely ignored. Sherlock had even agreed.

But then there was the call they’d ignored and only received the message hours later, and by then a woman had been kidnapped, her husband was unconscious in the hospital and Sherlock only managed to solve the case and rescue the woman (in time to get to the hospital for her husband to wake up) at the expense of a broken finger and John almost drowning in the Serpentine after being hit on the head by a 17th century bedwarming pan.

So now, even if they were well steeped in lovemaking, if Sherlock’s phone rang with the Met’s assigned ringtone, Sherlock answered it. Even infused in feel-good hormones and approaching orgasm, he could assess how important the case was; how much time they could spare to reach the scene.

So John paused, taking the time to rub his cheek against Sherlock’s upraised leg, to kiss his calf and the hollow behind his knee. To stroke the inner thigh of his other leg, rubbing little circles with his thumb, while Sherlock shivered under his hands and around his cock, still pushed inside him. He managed to speak to Lestrade in short syllables.

“Yes. Right. Picture?”

Sherlock held the phone away so he could see the incoming photograph, though he took the opportunity to flex his body, undulating against the mattress, against the fullness of John inside him. He blinked perspiration from his eyes and pressed the phone to his ear.

“There in fifteen minutes. Yes.”

He pressed the End Call button and flung the phone onto the floor.

“ _John…”_

John smoothed both hands down Sherlock’s thighs, to his hips, and his thumbs now described small, sensuous circles on the thin, sensitive skin above the bones, and his own hips began to move again, to thrust again.

This was not the first time they’d had such a call at such a time. They had techniques for moments like this.

Sometimes those techniques had Sherlock jerking himself off, with his fingers up John’s arse, his mouth wrapped around John’s cock, sucking and swallowing with intensity that had the both of them coming in moments. Some days, if lingerie had been the day’s indulgence, those techniques were for John to pluck up Sherlock’s peeled away red lacy panties, damp with pre-come, and rub them against his own cock while Sherlock fucked him towards the same result. Once, John used the panties to wank the both of them off, promising huskily he’d wear them, all sticky, to the crime scene if Sherlock came on them (and they both did, though John wasn’t held to his promise – they both knew it was the idea of it that had set them both off like the cannon sequence in the 1812 Overture).

This time, John bent low over Sherlock’s body, his slow fucking picking up speed and strength, and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock between them and pulled. He circled his thumb over Sherlock’s slit, now, spreading slickness, and kept his grip firm and sensuous and perfect.

“Look at you,” he said, voice husky, “Fucking gorgeous. Your tight little hole is perfect. God, my dick feels good in you, I love fucking you, fucking your perfect arse, Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock began to undulate again, to roll his hips and push himself in counterpoint to John’s thrusts, to impale himself deeper and faster and more and _more and **more**_ …

John kept up his litany of profane encouragement. “God, that’s good, move for me, god yes, perfect, fuck yourself on me, yeah, that’s it, that’s it. God yes, Sherlock, yes, come on, baby. Fuck, you feel good moving on my cock, and, _Christ_ , your cock feels so good in my hand. So big. So hot. Fuck yes. Fuck, you’re beautiful. God. Baby. Come on.” They were both moving faster, harder, they were grunting a little now with the exquisite effort of it…

“Fuck, yeah, come on, gorgeous. Come all over me, Sherlock. Come on. Come on me, cover me, fuck, all over me, that’s it, baby, that’s…That’s it…” Sherlock arched, cried out, pulsed hot over John’s fist and belly and groin, and John threw his head back, “Fuck. Christ, it’s coming, I’m going to, I’m, I’m… _Fuck_.” And he bucked and came hard.

They spared a few seconds to pant for breath and laugh and grin on their bed, sticky and sweaty, with thrumming hearts.

Then they lurched out of bed. Two minutes with wet flannels in the bathroom (on wobbly legs) and clothes tugged on (John’s T-shirt was back to front, and Sherlock’s buttons out of alignment, though he noticed and fixed that just as they emerged from the cab) and they arrived at the crime scene in sixteen minutes, looking flushed.

As though they’d hurried straight there, whether or not it was convenient.

 

 


End file.
